“A lot of things didn’t use to be.”
“Thanks. The paper says he was shot. How many wounds? Where? What kinda gun?”
“Looks like a 9mm. Three entrance wounds, two exit. One shot in the back above the right shoulder blade. One in the back of the left leg and one in the head. Ballistics should be done in a few hours and the autopsy’s going on right now.”
“Drugs?” Joe asked.
“The tox screening won’t be done for-”
“Not in his system.”
“Oh, right, those drugs. Nope. George didn’t mention them finding anything on him.”
“Is there a warrant out for me?”
“Not yet, but you know the minute Hoskins or Kramer get wind of this, you’re seriously fucked. You better get lawyered-up before they come for you and maybe you better warn that fireman friend of yours-what’s his name, Scanlon-that trouble’s coming his way, too. You want some names?”
“Nah. Unfortunately, I already know too many lawyers.”
“Yeah, I guess you would.”
“What about you? What are you gonna do?”
“Don’t worry about me, Serpe. I can handle myself.”
“Famous last words.”
“Yup. I suppose we all think that. Good luck, Joe. Anything you need from me, just ask.”
“Thanks.”
“What’d’ya do with the tapes?”
“That’s been seen to. Listen, I do need your help.”
“I offered, so ask,” Healy said, almost enthusiastic. “I had a little meeting with the MexSal Saints.” Healy was incredulous. “Meeting?”
“Something like that. I’ll tell you about it some other time. Anyway, they denied having anything to do with Reyes’ murder.”
“They would.”
“Maybe, but I believed ‘em. You ever hear of the Americans for America?”
“Those clowns that think Pat Buchanan is too liberal and think we should build a wall along our southern border? Yeah, I heard of them. They’re the ones stirring up things in Farmingville. Why, the Saints think one of them did Reyes?”
“Makes a sick kinda sense.”
“I’ll check around.”
“Listen, Healy, forget checking around. I got a better idea.”
“Yeah, like what?”
“How good are you at picking a fight?”
“Why?” Healy asked.
“Time for a little undercover work. You up for it?”
“Probably not, but tell me anyway.”
When Joe got done detailing his plan, he went back to bed to wait. He wondered how long it would take for the cops to show. He decided there was no formula for figuring out the cops or how many gang members could dance on the head of a pin.
Monday March 1st, 2004
The cops never came, not on Sunday, anyhow. Healy had called him a few times during the day to see if he was all right or if he’d gotten a sniff from Hoskins. Marla called too, assuring him that the tapes were in a safe place. Joe’d had to reassure her that he would be fine no matter what happened. Neither of them believed a word of it. It’s a strange thing, reassurance. If we do enough of it, we can nearly trick ourselves into believing it. Nearly.
Like a condemned man reading cookbooks, Joe spent a good portion of the day skimming the real estate section of the papers. If he got through this mess, he decided, he would move. He was through with ghosts and grief. With that vow still fresh on his lips, he sat down next to the answering machine.
“Goodbye, little brother.” Joe pressed the erase button. Then, the tears wiped from his eyes and his throat cleared, he pressed RECORD. “This is Joe Serpe. Leave a message and I promise to get back to you. Bye.”
Joe knew it was an empty gesture. If things went as badly as they might, he wouldn’t be getting back to anybody, not for a long while. But a man in his shoes could afford an empty gesture. And besides, it was time to finally let Vinny rest. Joe was not a stupid man. He knew he had used Vinny’s death to camouflage the collapse of his own life. Since Cain’s murder, since Marla, it had dawned on him that the camouflage had long been unnecessary, that the only one looking at the rubble was him.
Given that he was waiting for the hammer to fall, Joe didn’t expect to sleep but for a few fleeting minutes. But when sleep came, it came hard and deep.
There were no dramatic dreams, no visitations, only calm blackness. When he woke in the morning, it was to the sound of his own voice. That would take some getting used to. He hoped to have the chance. He reached for the phone.
“Yeah.”
“It’s Healy.”
“Hey, Bob,” Joe said without hesitation. “Did you speak to your brother? Are they on their way?”
“They already knocked on someone else’s door.”
Serpe was confused. “Someone else’s door?”
“Which you want first, the good news or the bad?”
“Since I’m not handcuffed or sitting in an interview room, I kinda figured that’s the good news.”
“Your boss.”
“What about my boss?”
“Suffolk Homicide’s got him at the Fourth.”
“Frank?”
“The cops picked him up this morning at about four.”
“Shit, but that can’t be. Frank didn’t-”
“It was his gun, Joe, his prints-”
“Whaddya mean, his gun? Frank doesn’t-”
“Yes, he does, a 9mm Smith and Wesson registered to him. He’s got a carry permit. When the cops executed their warrant on Mayday’s offices, they found it. It’d been fired, three bullets missing from the clip. The refrigerator magnet had his prints on it and he’s got no real alibi for Saturday night.”
“Fuck!”
“It’s pretty bad. You know those lawyer names you were thinking about for yourself, I’d turn that list over to your boss in a hurry.”
“Can you meet me over there?” Joe asked. “Over where?”
“At the Fourth. I can’t let him do this alone.”
“You’ll be no help to him there, Joe. Get his wife the names of those lawyers and tell her to have him keep his mouth shut.”
“But-”
“But nothing. You know I’m right. Us showing up there will just piss the cops off and make it harder on your boss. Maybe tomorrow, after he’s arraigned, I can get George to get you in to see him. Not today.”
“Christ, Healy, it just keeps getting worse and worse.”
Healy asked the question they’d both been avoiding. “Do you think he did it?”
